Ghost Story with Only 37 Viewers
Bank balance: 4,120 won. And the text that had just arrived from the landlord.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. People actually starve to death like this.”
I set the phone down and clutched my head. Two years had already passed since I’d dropped out of college, bounced from one part-time job to the next, and finally washed up in this cramped one-room apartment.
After my parents died in an accident, all that remained were debts and a chronic habit of shutting myself away. Every job I managed to grab never lasted long. Work I took to pay off the debt only burned through transportation and food money, and dealing with people grew more exhausting by the day. The money I needed right now was 350,000 won for rent. If I got kicked out tomorrow, I had nowhere to go. So I chose internet streaming.
Lately the world had grown chaotic with Hunters and Gates popping up everywhere, but to a non-awakened freeloader like me it was someone else’s problem. I had no power to fight monsters and no skills usable in a dungeon. The only survival method left to me was running my mouth from the corner of my room. But the world was merciless.
Gaming streams flopped because I had neither gear nor skill. Mukbangs were impossible when I couldn’t even afford chicken. In the end, the path I chose was live-streaming spicy internet stories and ghost tales.
“Ghost stories making money? Yeah, right.”
On the computer screen floated a cheap V-Tuber avatar I’d bought for 30,000 won from a freelance site. Silver hair, red eyes. A petite adult woman who looked about 155 cm. Broadcast nickname: Hachiko. I’d picked it because even a cute avatar like this would draw more traffic than my own shabby real face. At least I could pull off a thumbnail scam.
TubeLive streaming has begun.
I adjusted the mic and hit the stream button. Five minutes passed, then ten, and the viewer count still refused to leave single digits. Only after I scattered bait posts across a few communities did the number finally budge.
Thirty-seven people. Amazing. Truly amazing. To cover rent with this crowd, nearly every single one would have to donate ten thousand won. Judging by the chat, I was more likely to get a line of insults than a single donation.
Still, now that they were here, I had to say something.
“Ah, yes. Hello, everyone. I’m Hachiko. Today I’ve brought a creepy, spine-tingling ghost story for you.”
My voice, run through the modulation program, spilled from the speakers as the cute little girl’s tone.
I didn’t sound desperate—I was desperate. But I couldn’t start the stream by begging for rent money. I glanced at the notepad under the monitor. Prepared ghost story? None. Every famous urban legend had already been milked dry. With only thirty-seven people watching, I might as well make one up on the spot.
“The ghost story I’m telling today is… a rumor that’s been circulating lately in nearby residential areas. It’s about The Black Woman of 2:44 AM.”
Pure fabrication. 2:44 AM was just a number I’d tossed out because the current time was 2:20. Two fours in a row felt like the Chinese character for death stacking up—sounded plausible enough.
“Have any of you ever been alone in your room at 2:44 in the morning and heard knocking at the front door? If you hear exactly three knocks at that hour—knock, knock, knock—you must never answer.”
I deliberately breathed heavily into the mic. Timing the blink of Hachiko’s red eyes on screen made the atmosphere surprisingly convincing.
“Outside stands a woman in black clothing whose form you can’t make out. After knocking three times, she always asks the same thing.”
I dropped my voice as low as it would go.
“You’re home, aren’t you?”
The chat lagged a beat, then moved.
They were reacting. I seized the momentum and kept going.
“If you ask who it is or open the door… that woman rips the door open through the crack and comes inside. Then she steals the face of whoever’s in the house. Starting the next day, a woman wearing that person’s face begins knocking on other doors.”
Even I thought it sounded pretty decent after saying it. But the chat quickly returned to its usual temperature.
“I’m serious, okay?”
The lukewarm response lit a stubborn fire in me. Ghost stories needed detailed rules and safety tips to feel real. Without thinking, I opened my mouth.
“There’s exactly one way to survive even if you hear the knocking. First, never make a sound. Second, put on red socks inside out.”
Even coming from my own mouth it sounded absurd. But I’d already said it. I had to commit.
“Clothes turned inside out in red have a talismanic property that drives away misfortune, so the woman outside mistakes it for an empty house and just walks past. It has to be red socks specifically. Other colors won’t work.”
I snuck a glance at the laundry pile next to the bed. Of course there weren’t any.
“Uh… yeah, I do.”
The lie slipped out automatically.
“Anyway, if you hear knocking, put on red socks inside out. Don’t make a sound. Don’t open the door either. If you just stay quiet wearing the red socks, that woman will pass by.”
The viewers kept joking about the red socks. One said they were going to look for some; another asked what if the black woman was color-blind. My life of seriously explaining this nonsense was legendary. I kept ad-libbing, desperate for even one donation.
“Even if she’s color-blind she knows red. She’s a ghost—you think she wouldn’t know that much? And anyone who donates today, I’ll specially put on the black woman’s no-entry list.”
Only bone-cutting chats rose up. Behind the smiling avatar I bit my lip. Still I held on a few more minutes, hammering the red-socks-and-silence rule over and over. The clock had already slipped past 2:40.
That was when my eyes, scanning the viewer list, caught a strange account. The nickname field was completely blank. No profile icon either—just a pure black account. Refreshing the list didn’t make it disappear. While other viewer numbers rose and fell, it sat motionless at the very bottom. No chat, no donation. It was simply watching. My hand, about to hover the cursor over the account, froze. A chill ran up my fingertips as if a cold breeze had brushed them. For some reason I really didn’t want to click it.
“Bug, maybe…”
I muttered quietly and looked away. If I clicked and the streaming program crashed, even today’s sole achievement—thirty-seven viewers—could vanish.
“That’s all for today’s stream. Next time I’ll bring a ghost story about Platform 0—a station that doesn’t appear on any subway map and doesn’t actually exist.”
Naturally, that teaser was also made up on the spot.
“Everyone, even after you turn off the stream, don’t forget to grab those red socks. If you hear three knocks at 2:44 AM, never answer.”
“See you next stream.”
TubeLive streaming has ended.
The moment I ended the stream a long sigh burst out. Total donations displayed in the corner of the monitor: 0 won. Over twenty-three minutes of talking for zero. The viewers had left only free insults and mockery behind.
“I’m screwed. I’m actually getting kicked out tomorrow.”
I scratched my head hard and sank into the chair back. With the stream off, the room suddenly grew quiet. The frantic chat from moments ago, my own words returning in that cute voice—all gone. Only the low whir of the old computer fan remained.
The bluish light from the monitor cut off cleanly just before the front door. I stared blankly at the digital clock hanging on the wall.
The numbers on the clock flickered. One minute left until the ghost story I had created began.
“Come on.”
I let out a hollow laugh, but my throat felt a little dry. I knew better than anyone that it was a made-up story. The black woman, the rule about surviving by wearing red socks inside out—all of it had come out of my mouth just minutes ago. Yet looking toward the dark front door, a chill settled in one corner of my chest.
The computer fan sounded unusually loud. When the refrigerator motor cut out with a soft clunk, the only moving sound left in the room was my own breathing. I checked the laundry pile beside the bed for no good reason. Gray socks. Black socks. White socks. No red ones.
“I make it up and then I get scared—what am I even doing?”
I muttered the self-mocking line and stood. The faint hallway sensor light that had been leaking under the front door suddenly turned on. A moment later, even though no one had walked past, it flickered once and went out. The air in the room felt colder than before.
In that instant the last digit on the digital clock changed.
Knock.
A dull sound lodged itself between the whir of the computer fan.
Knock.
The second knock was clearer. I stood frozen between the bed and the desk, unable to move.
Knock.
Exactly three times. Dry knocks rang out from the front door.
Cold sweat ran down my spine. I hadn’t misheard. The apartment was corridor-style, and at this hour no one would come looking for me. I hadn’t ordered any packages or delivery.
My heart hammered wildly. 2:44 AM. Three knocks. Exactly the same as the ghost story I had just invented.
Beyond the front door the lock slowly rattled. Then a thin, scraping sound like fingernails dragging across the iron door stretched out long.
And a thin, bizarre voice seeped through the crack. Not a single syllable different from the line I had spoken on stream.
“You’re home…
aren’t you?”